“Get off me,” he screamed, “get off.” He elbowed the old poxer in the face and its arms pinwheeled as it fell backwards and smacked its head against the bus. Tattoo Guy turned to my aunt. “Get outta here,” he screamed. “I can feel it in me.”
This was only the third time I had actually seen anyone turn into a poxer. The first fatality was Mr. Mic from our neighborhood back in Littleham. One of the kids who lived down the street bit him. I swear, that seemed like eons ago, but was really only last Friday night. The second was a woman named Mrs. Bijur. Diana, Dr. Marks, and the rest of the whack-jobs at Site 37 used her as part of an experiment. There were some other close calls, but Tattoo Guy was one of the few people I’ve ever seen poxified while I watched.
Aunt Ella scrambled out of the bushes and trucked up the embankment like mad dogs were at her heels.
Tattoo Guy howled and fell to his knees. By that time, Boozie the Bus Driver clawed himself to his feet and lunged at Tattoo Guy again, but it didn’t matter. Tattoo Guy’s head jerked sideways and spittle flew from his mouth. The next thing I knew, he had grabbed the old poxer by the throat, threw him to the ground, and sunk his teeth into him somewhere above the neck.
I didn’t watch. I looked up in the multicolored trees instead. I needed to see something pretty. What Tattoo Guy was doing wasn’t pretty.
“Get back in the bus,” barked Aunt Ella to everyone. “You kids get back in the van.”
All the adults ran. They didn’t even notice that ‘us kids’ didn’t move. Instead, they piled into the bus like rats escaping a sinking ship—my parents included—and Aunt Ella pulled the door closed.
My mother and father plastered themselves against the window at the back of the bus. My mother was holding Krystal. My father was banging at the lock so he could push the glass down and stick his head out.
“Get back in the van,” I heard him scream, but his words were muffled behind the window, like he was calling out to me in a dream.
The next thing I knew, Trina was by my side. I turned and watched as Jimmy lowered himself out of the minivan and into his wheel chair. He had a paper bag on his lap.
“Sorry,” she said. “Did I miss something?” She popped a tube of lip gloss out of her hip pocket and ran the cherry wax across her lips.
“Nope—can’t think of a thing. Oh yeah. Did you know that Chuck Peterson got turned into a zombie with the rest of the world and some evil government agency kidnapped Mom and Dad but ended up really wanting us because we’re supposed to be all immune and stuff?”
Trina smacked her lips and pushed the tube back into her pocket. “Are you done being jealous yet?”
“Jealous of Carrot Top on wheels? Shut the front door.”
“Um, I’m right here,” said Jimmy. He wheeled over to us and handed me the paper bag.
“Sorry, man,” I said. “Sib spat.”
“No apologies, dude. I’m cool.”
Prianka put Sanjay and Newfie back in the car. Then she and Bullseye joined us. We watched Tattoo Guy and the old bus driver going at each other like pit bulls.
“He was a nice enough guy,” I said. Prianka squeezed my arm.
Trina blew air out her nose. “We need the gas from that bus,” she said, ever the practical of the two of us. “We can’t torch poxers too close to the gas tank or the whole thing will go kablooey.”
“Well I’m not playing bait,” snapped Prianka.
“I will,” said Trina. “I’m prettier, anyway.”
My eyes grew wide and so did Jimmy’s. Neither of us was going to comment on that one. Not on a bet.
“Fine,” hissed Prinaka. “Just fine, Miss Immunity—you do it.” She folded her arms over her chest and pursed her lips.
Trina looked over the embankment at the grappling poxers. “Whatever. Do you think we could slow them down a little?”
“On it,” said Bullseye. What he really meant was he was going to shoot them in the legs. Shooting them in the head would have been a lot more convenient, if that actually did the trick, but Necropoxy didn’t work that way. I guess the brain isn’t exactly the sweet spot when it comes to poxers.
Bullseye took a step forward and held a handgun in front of him with both hands. Without hesitating he fired twice.
The old poxer fell over to one side. Tattoo Guy got hit in the knee. A fine spray of black blood misted out of the wound like a tiny cloud. His leg buckled underneath him and he went down.
Bullseye was one hell of a shot. His dad had traded Bullseye’s baby bottle in for a gun, so by the time most of us were learning how to ride bikes, Bullseye was shooting soda cans off fence posts at two hundred yards.
It’s weird what parents teach their kids, like how to tie a tie or make the perfect omelet. My dad made sure I knew how to change a tire by the time I was fifteen—Trina, too. Mom taught us both how to make pancakes, even though I think that was just so she could sleep in on Sunday mornings.
I guess Bullseye’s dad thought his son needed to know weapons.
We all exchanged nervous glances as we watched the poxers go down—all except for Bullseye. He was sort of, well, dead to it all. What gave me a little bit of the heebie jeebies was that shooting the poxers didn’t seem to bother him much. Most sixth graders would have ralphed at the thought.
Most would have hesitated—at least for a second.
“They’re going to crawl after me now,” yelled Trina over her shoulder as she slowly made her way down the side of the road. “Once they’re clear of the bus we can torch them.”
I looked inside the paper bag Jimmy gave me. There were matches, lighters, paper, and lighter fluid—your basic, garden-variety poxer killing kit. I felt a little twinge of guilt deep in the pit of my stomach. Who was I to be freaked about Bullseye? Torching poxers or shooting them was really the same thing. The only difference between me and him was that I was burning them instead of using a gun.
Either way, I felt nothing.
I turned to Prianka. “Can you go tell my aunt to pull the bus up a couple hundred feet? I don’t want any poxer goo to hit them.”
She smiled weakly and nodded.
“Bullseye, I take it you know how to back the van up and out of the way?”
“If it’s like backing up a quad, then yeah.”
“Just like,” I said.
Andrew flew down off his perch and landed on Jimmy’s head.
“Poxers,” he chirped.
“I know, buddy,” said Jimmy. “We’re going to make them go bye-bye.”
Yeah, that’s right. We were going to make Tattoo Guy and the other poxer go bye-bye like they never even existed. Like ten minutes ago, the guy whose name I never caught wasn’t sitting in a school bus with a bunch of survivors, dreaming of getting somewhere safe and maybe starting a little farm or something—on an island or a place where poxers couldn’t reach.
I almost got all weepy there for a second, but I didn’t. Maybe I was dead inside.
Dead—just like the poxers.
3
WHEN I THREW THE burning paper at Tattoo Guy and the old bus driver, I did get kind of sick to my stomach. I think it’s because, in a weird sort of way, I committed murder right in front of my parents.
Most of the adults on the bus had never seen a poxer burst into flames and blow up before. They never had the chance. Most of them had been locked up at Site 37 for the better part of the past week. As for Aunt Ella and Dorcas Duke, they never figured out that fire was the silver bullet for killing poxers, and Krystal—well, Krystal probably didn’t even know what a match was.
As for me, I think I felt a little ashamed—ashamed that Tattoo Guy was someone I sort of knew. It’s not that we were best friends or anything, but we had shared getting out of a tight situation. I knew what he looked like when he smiled, and I knew what
he looked like when he was angry and pounding Dr. Marks’ face in. Then there was the fact that Aunt Ella had just said that she couldn’t take the guy’s mouth for much longer.
I don’t know. The whole situation seemed a little too close to murder, so in a nutshell, everything plain sucked.
As tar-like, black poxer goop burned itself out along the highway, I turned away and caught Trina’s eyes. She knew what I was feeling. It’s a twin thing. We looked at each other for a long moment, then she licked her lips, swiped the blond hair away from her eyes, and shrugged like there was nothing that either of us could do to change things.
I guess Prianka knew, too. She gently reached over and took the paper bag out of my hand. I think I was holding on to it a little too tightly. She had to tug twice before I let go.
I heard a beeping sound as Aunt Ella’s school bus slowly backed up to where we were standing. The wheels squeaked when it stopped, and the smell of diesel and exhaust filled the air. Aunt Ella opened the door and came out, followed by the others.
Everyone was quiet. Maybe they were in shock. Maybe they never saw a murderer before. Maybe they were even thinking that there were places for kids like me—delinquents who don’t follow the rules.
Gotta tell you, folks. Throw out your handbooks. There are no rules anymore.
My mom held Krystal on her hip. She was all chubby cheeks and light brown curls, like a kid you would see in commercials for cereal or hotdogs. She watched me with her hazel eyes.
“The fire was pretty,” Krystal said in a soft voice.
At least I made somebody happy. Still, I couldn’t look at my mother. I felt if I did I would see the face of someone staring back at a monster. I didn’t think I could take that. Not now. Not after everything.
My dad came up and stood in front of me. I couldn’t look at him either so I stared at his shoes. I think they were Sperrys. My dad said they went out of style years ago, and then, all of a sudden, came back. They were dusty from the gravel on the side of the road so I couldn’t really tell what color they were supposed to be—brown, maybe. My dad wasn’t the kind of guy to go out on a limb and wear blue or red. Lots of the other dads in Littleham used to, though. I’m glad my dad was more down-to-earth than that.
“You okay?” he asked.
I couldn’t tell if he was about to yell at me or what. I couldn’t even tell if he was disappointed in me or not. When I was in eighth grade, my soccer team didn’t make the play-offs. Dad came to as many games as he could, even though showing up wasn’t easy with his schedule. I remember the important game—the one that was going to put us in the running. We had gone into overtime and it was up to me to make that final kick. I remember quickly scanning the bleachers and seeing him sitting there, intensely watching my every move. Finally, when I wound up and kicked the soccer ball, it went high and flew into the bushes behind the goal.
After the crowd had calmed down and my team was forced to endure shaking hands with every player on the other team, my dad came up to me and said the same thing—‘You okay?’
I’m sure what he really wanted to say was, ‘I’m incredibly disappointed in you, son—incredibly disappointed’. I didn’t answer him then, and I couldn’t answer him now.
Everyone was so quiet. I knew my friends understood, but the adults? I wasn’t sure about any of them. They hadn’t endured what we went through this past week. Maybe they lived through a different kind of hell, but not this one—not burning poxers alive by the dozens.
Not by a long shot.
My father took a step closer and put his arms around me in his signature bear hug. “I am so, so proud of you, Tripp,” he said. “So very proud.”
My mother came up next to my dad and engulfed us both in a hug, too. Krystal ended up with her pudgy face smooshed up next to mine.
“Can you make the fire again?” she whispered.
I smiled and squeezed her hand. “I hope not today,” I whispered, and I really, really meant it.
“Okay, okay, party’s over,” yelled my aunt, and just like that everyone was back to normal or whatever a bunch of survivors on the run from zombies and crazy government scientists consider normal. “It’s time to grab some diesel and blow this popcorn stand.”
Did she really have to mention food? My stomach growled. Food was right up there with diesel on my list of necessities.
Just when I was thinking that my stomach growling was getting a little too loud, I realized that it wasn’t my stomach at all. There was a helicopter coming down the long stretch of road in front of us, barely twenty feet off the ground.
It was coming in low and it was coming in fast.
4
I DON’T KNOW WHY adults think they’re so smart, because, from what I’ve seen, they do some of the stupidest things ever.
Kids are nowhere near that dumb. I mean, come on. If you were just locked up in a super-secret government facility and managed, by some miracle, to get out, would it be top on your list to wave down a helicopter that looked like it was gunning for you?
Diana said she would find us, no matter what. Either she was in that eggbeater, or maybe Dr. Marks, or one of the pretty scientists from one of the other sites. I knew I was right. Diana’s words still echoed in my heard.
‘Our numbers are legion,’ she said to me. Legion—isn’t that another word for a lot?
So, given all that, you do the math. When a strange helicopter is heading straight for you, do you dive back into your vehicle and play dead like everyone else on the planet, or do you stand in the middle of the road and wave your chubby, flabby arms like a big, fat bird who will never achieve lift-off?
That’s what Trudy Aiken did. Her name I knew. She wasn’t hard to miss. Trudy was one of the people we saved from Site 37 and one of the six that decided to travel with us.
She was fat. There really wasn’t any beating around the bush about that. Don’t get me wrong—I don’t have anything against fat people. They’re jolly. Trudy Aiken, however, wasn’t just pleasingly plump. She was double-wide fat, triple-chin fat, two-airplane-seats fat. I have to think that if a group of poxers was after her, she wouldn’t get very far before her tree-trunk legs buckled under her tonnage and the Trudy All-You-Can-Eat Buffet was featured on the menu.
One of my friends in school, this guy named Derrick, was fat, too. Fat? Hell, he was huge. Yet at lunch time, he was the one eating carrot sticks and a Skinny Cow yogurt. Maybe he went home and binged on tater tots and Oreos. I don’t know. At least in public, he looked like he was trying.
Trudy had no intentions of trying. In the less-than-twenty-four hours that I had known her, she had gone through our collective supplies like a swarm of locusts.
“Thank God,” she wailed as she waddled out into the middle of the road. She waved her pudgy arms in the air like a Christmas goose. “Save us, PLEASE!”
“Get into the van,” I hollered at everyone. Even Andrew flew in the side door. I turned to my parents. “Hide,” I barked at them. “Just hide.”
“The other bus,” screamed Aunt Ella. “Get to the other bus.” Most everyone began dashing down the embankment to where the disabled bus landed in the woods, tilted sideways over a log. As I turned to go back to the minivan, my dad grabbed my arm.
“We’re fine, Dad,” I said with just a little too much venom in my voice. “Go.” I didn’t mean for my words to come out that way. Maybe someday, with loads of therapy, I’ll figure out why they did.
He didn’t move for a moment. Then he relaxed his grip.
“Be safe,” he said.
“Really, Dad? Now’s not the time for a sex talk.”
He snorted and trotted down the embankment after my mother.
Trudy stood in the middle of the road waving her flabby arms for all it was worth. Maybe she thought that there was food on board the helicopter, l
ike Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey or those awful, strawberry flavored Twinkies. Who knows? None of the adults noticed her in their mad dash to get inside the disabled bus.
Frankly, at first, I didn’t stop to think about what she was doing, either. So many things were running through my mind. What if there were poxers on that bus? What if one of them bit my mom or dad? What if they all turned into poxers?
Everything was moving so fast that Trudy Aiken wasn’t exactly on the top of my list of priorities. It wasn’t until after I high-tailed it to the minivan and turned around that I noticed her at all. What could she possibly be thinking?
A small but persistent voice, like a little demon sitting on my shoulder, said, ‘Not your problem’. The words were like a reprieve.
No, Trudy Aiken wasn’t my problem. She was a big girl—a really big girl. Wasn’t it about time she put on her big girl pants and figured out what she was doing was moronic?
‘Not your problem’, said the voice again. This time I listened. I looked down the embankment and watched as my mom and dad, Aunt Ella, Krystal, and the others climbed into the hobbled bus. Then I climbed inside the minivan and looked out the window. The chopper bore down on big, fat Trudy Aiken like it was hunting elephants on the savannah.
“Duck down,” I yelled to everyone. “They might not even know we’re here.”
“Not likely,” said Jimmy. “They probably have a file on each of us already.”
“It’s supposed to feel nice to be wanted,” whispered Trina. “This sucks.”
“I want you,” whispered Jimmy.
We all groaned.
The Dead (a Lot) Trilogy (Book 1): Wicked Dead Page 2